Interludes, A 3 part story
by leppress
Summary: Sort of a day in the life of...Silly, cheesy, and short! It asks the mundane question, what if Trish were to become all too normal, and find herself addicted to afternoon TV? Read to find out the answer to this, and other questions no one wants to ask. ;)
1. Life Altering Events

Titled: Life Altering Events...Of soap operas and Television schedules... 

A very short, cheesy story. In three parts. In the key of Z minor. (Sorry old musician's joke, and no I am not a musician, the world collectively sighs in relief, but my hubby is.) 

**Author's Notes and Usual Disclaimers:** I had this idea, it came from a single phrase blasting through my brain. Damn the Muses! Damn them all! Damn them to Hell!! Aargh! 

*Sigh* 

So...I created this cutesy little ficlet. It's cheezy, it's lame, but it made my husband laugh. Which means he is either easily amused, or I actually wrote something funny. And it also made my beta-reader and one of my best friends, my sis, LepAngel laugh. A HUGE thanks to her for beta-ing this sucker! *Smooches!* 

What is it? Just goofy stuff. The muses are kicking me up the errm bum. Each time I finish one, they continue. They are mocking me! 

Anyway, look at this like a sort of "Day in the Life of." 

Normal sorts of stuff. Well, normal for two who are demonic. *Evil laughter* Be afraid be very afraid. 

Enjoy... Oh yeah and this isn't terribly detailed, doesn't need a ton of detail. Play DMC and you can visualize for yourself. ;) Or not. 

Pairings: Sort of, Dante/Trish, not romantic. But, oh well. 

Perhaps, someday. 

Rating: PG for the hell of it, and BECAUSE I SAY SO!! Blahahahahahahahahaha!! 

*Runs screaming* They're coming to take me away, ha ha! They're coming to take me away! To the Funny Farm I say... 

Oh yeah the usual disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue me. Etc. Blah blah blah... 

In other words: *Official announcer voice booms* Dante and Trish are the creations of Capcom from the games: Devil May Cry, and Devil May Cry 2. 

*Smacks Official Announcer away* Ahem, this is MY gig dude! Go away! *Straightens self out. Dusts self off.* 

*Glares at muttering announcer, calling me a cheap biyaaaaaaatch.* The check's in the mail. Now, shoo...Go away, go home! Before I break out the FOOT OF GODZILLA and smack your punk-ass down! 

There. *Tosses FOOT OF GODZILLA over shoulder* Gah! Anyone got any odor eater's that are like size 5000? Godzilla's got nasty foot odor! ACK! 

On with it: I, sadly do not own either Dante, (dammit!) or Trish. They are not real, so neither will be insulted by any abuse I throw at them. Thank God! 

The rest are mine. And any and all possible connection to soap operas, real and imagined are unintended. Do not attempt this at home. 

And last but not least: Flamers, aren't liked all that much. But are highly amusing when they're hung from a wall, mocked for a month, laughed at hysterically, then used for target practice with a bazooka, and at the end will be bitch-slapped with the overly malodorous FOOT OF GODZILLA. Get the picture? 

* * *

An office door blew open and hit the wall behind it with a resounding bang. He barely glanced up from the newspaper he was currently perusing. The recent Major League Baseball scores were far more interesting than one of the doors being blown open by the wind. He'd close it when he was cold enough. 

But the wind wasn't the reason behind the door's sudden and unexpected opening. The "reason" came through the doors like the hounds of hell were after her. A flurry of long blonde hair, and black leather streaking past the slightly startled man sitting casually at the desk. "I see hurricane Trish has made landfall." He smirked and raised his booted feet onto the top of his desk and shook the paper out to continue reading. 

"Hmmmm, Card's've got a chance at the Series this year," he muttered to himself. Engrossed, he didn't pay attention to the sound of a cupboard door being slammed in the kitchen a few minutes later. Just turned a quarter of his attention toward it. Dismissed it as inconsequencial. She'd only managed to blow up the nuke once since she'd been there. The vagueries of appliances had been a problem at first for the demonic female. 

She came back out toward the office, and stood in front of his desk. He paid her no more attention than if she'd not been there. A dramatic sigh, "My life is now officially over." 

"Hmmmmm, over...Yeah." Came the muffled response from behind the newspaper. 

She groaned. She was fuming mad at the world and wanted to at least take it out on someone, "Didn't you hear me?" 

"Yeah. Life, over...Sure." Again from behind the newspaper. 

With a growl she grabbed the nearest sharp object at hand, a sword that was holding a demon head up. She didn't pay attention to the trophy hitting the wood floor with a rather nasty, squishy sort of splat, and brought the sword down smartly over the newspaper, effectively cutting it in two. Only to have a pair of lighter blue eyes, framed by shaggy white hair, and a very bland expression, look at her between the two halves of the paper, "Is there a problem?" 

"Yeah, there's a problem all right." Trish was staring at him, battle in her eyes. Barely controlled fury all but oozing from her. 

"And?" 

"You don't care. Why bother?" She turned and stomped stiffly away. 

"Ah Trish? What was it you said about your life being 'officially over?' They run out of shoes at Payless?" A snicker, and he quickly blanked his expression when she turned and he saw her expression was thunderous. It wasn't wise to piss off a demon who could likely kick his ass into next Tuesday, but since when was he wise? Besides she was rather cute when she was steaming. 

"No! That is NOT the problem." 

"Then why is your life officially over?" A perfectly reasonable question, and perfectly logical. And spoken perfectly, logically, reasonably as well. 

She growled and parked her black leather clad butt on his desk, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, dragging him halfway over the desk and toward her snarling face, which was a shock to him, he'd forget sometimes she COULD ACTUALLY kick his ass into next Tuesday. "Because you moron, they canceled my favorite afternoon show. NOW IT'S OVER! I will NEVER know if Shane and Kenny got together! Or if Amanda's baby's Sebastian's or Donald's! I HAVE NOTHING TO DO AT 2pm!" With that said, she let him go, and watched as he fell back into his chair and stared at her blankly. 

She got up and walked back to the kitchen, to grieve the loss of her favorite afternoon soap... 

He quickly picked up a pen and dug in his desk for some paper. 

"Note to self: Do NOT Talk To Trish About:  
1. Life altering experiences. IE: Soap Operas being pre-empted by other important things. Like the President's Address to the Nation." 

He choked back the laugh. He knew, she didn't understand that particular vaguery of television yet. He'd read the TV Schedule, and knew that all the afternoon TV schedules were messed up by the President. Tapping the pen against his mouth, he gnawed on the cap for a moment then continued: "2. Never tell Trish that I knew what was happening. If I value my life as I know it." 

And as an afterthought, he quickly added: "And if I don't want my ass kicked into next week." There, done. He carefully put the pen down, and folded the paper and stuffed it in his coat's inner pocket. It would save his sanity, he was sure of it. 


	2. The Number One Rule

**A Short Interlude, Take 2:**

Same deal: Do not own. Do not sue...But I want Dante's coat! NOW! 

The Number One Rule In Life: 

* * *

And all the world was right again. 

She was lying on the floor of the small living room/den area of the upstairs apartment over the office. She'd been lying there for over an hour, transfixed by the scenes on the TV happily blasting away human angst and over-done drama. 

He'd found her there earlier, and saw she hadn't moved from her position of lying on her belly, chin in her hands, long blonde hair fanned out over her back, and down toward her knees, three inch heeled, booted feet kicked up happily, clicking aforementioned boot heels together. It was driving him toward insanity, that incessant, "click, click, click." He'd come up there with every intention of telling her to cease and desist, because he couldn't think, but was caught up by the obviously raptured expression on her face, and the occassional sniff, and the swollen, red eyes. 

She'd been crying. 

She had a tissue balled up in one hand and occassionally blew into it. She had a small smile of absolute abandonment, and he found it...Somewhat, no make that, very attractive actually. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as the "click, click," of her boot heels kept going and again distracted his mind away from attraction, toward annoyance. It made his right eye twitch to the rythm she'd set. 

"Click, click, click." Oh it was so tempting to... 

He bit his lower lip with determination and rounded off with a kick that would have made a soccer player cry with pride, or envy, toward her feet but pulled back just before connecting. Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. Except for another watery sniff, a blow of the nose, and a dreamy sigh. 

Christ on crutches! The insidious sound of her boot heels resounded through his brain. His gaze locked onto her boots as they came together again. For the millionth time. Once each tenth of a second. He hadn't been timing it, hadn't been counting the clicks, he tried to convince himself anyway. But at that moment, that sound was the enemy. The enemy must be vanquished, in the name of his sanity. With a snarl he grabbed her feet and she jumped a foot off the floor. 

"You SCARED ME!" The look of accusation was all too obvious, as she spun onto her back and glared at him, but then turned her attention back to the TV, as soon as the commercial, going on about some sort of "New, Improved and can't live without cleaning product" ended. Craning her neck backwards at what had to be a chiropractor's nightmarish angle, "You did that on purpose!" 

"You were driving me up a wall." That was snarled out between clenched teeth. 

She waved a hand toward him, as dismissively as a queen shunning a lower life form, and her attention was again drawn into the TV. Once again she assumed the position, and boot heels met. 

He snarled feraly at her, "TRISH! For the LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY OR NOT STOP THAT!" 

"Stop what?" She was paying him no real attention. 

Once again he grabbed her feet and held them, "That. If you have a heart, take pity on me." 

"Sorry, didn't realize," she said distracted. Another sniff, "Oh...No! Not those two! NO! It CAN'T be! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" She wailed as if she'd lost a long lost relative or friend. 

He ran a hand over his face, "And once again, the world as we know it, is coming to a horrific end. I will not say it. I refuse to be drawn in enough to ask. No it's not gonna happen." Satisfied he'd made his point, he released her feet and left her to her show. Click, click, click. With each repeat of that sound, his body started to twitch, convulsively. "Shit!" he muttered and stalked back toward the den. 

"Trish?" Nothing, just another sniff, a sigh and..."Trish?" A bit louder, he saw her twitch slightly, hmmmm, "Ooooooooh Trishy?" He sing-songed, and saw her tense, and turn a glare that would have had him in deli-thin slices on the floor. And once again she turned back, attention sucked into the vortex of daily afternoon TV drama. He reached for the remote that was on the floor at her side. 

"Touch that and die the most horrid, insidious, atrocious death ever brought upon a life-form on this planet, in this galaxy, or known universe." It was said with the tone of voice that a rabid rottwieller may have had, if it could talk. He reached forward a bit more and was rewarded with a snarled snap of teeth toward his hand. He jumped out of the way in time. And he noticed she'd started to glow, yellow lightning was snapping off her. 

"Oh ok, fine, I'll leave the remote alone, Your Highness." 

"You do that. Now go, Infidel." Satisfied she watched him step away cautiously and settled back down. 

"Wait, Infidel?" He turned and watched as she shrugged and continued watching the ongoing drama. "You've been watching CNN again?" A shrug. And a very threatening growl. He raised his hands in defeat and walked out grumbling. 

She smiled satisfied. "Rule one: Never, EVER come between a woman and her afternoon soap operas." 


	3. Of Aliens and Sacred Objects

**A Short Interlude: Part 3:** And the Muses march on! Stop! Stop I tell you!! 

R for language and some situations that some might find offensive. 

**STILL do not own.** Farking, fraking...*Walks off grumbling* 

Of Aliens and Sacred Objects: 

* * *

She was at it again. It had become the afternoon ritual for the past two weeks. She'd only been there two months, 3 days, 14 hours, ten minutes and 30 seconds, (but who was counting?) and already she was developing annoying habits. He winced as he watched her fly through the office. Heard her boots hit the stairs, must've taken them two at a time, and he heard the TV click on. 

2pm. Let the insanity begin. With a forelorn sigh, he settled into his chair and pouted. It was becoming as much his habit as her ritualistic afternoon TV schedule. He waited, counted: Three, two, one. And turned on the stereo in the office to eardrum blasting decibels. Anything to drown out the sounds of the soap she'd been drawn into like a moth to flame. 

A few minutes later, as he happily let his mind drift to the sounds of the latest Indy band, he heard the microwave's door click shut and the beeping of buttons being pushed. A bit concerned, he turned the stereo down. This was a twist on the usual routine. Soon he was regalled with the tantalizing scent of popcorn. 

Then his nose wrinkled, the scent had drifted from delicious and tempting, toward burnt. She had a thing for burnt popcorn or for that matter most anything burnt. Must be from when she resided in hell. He sighed and felt his stomach growl, then clench when the smell became overpowering. Beeeeeeeep! The door was opened, the scent became nearly nauseating. 

*Slam. Thump, thump, thump, thump.* Back up the stairs again. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and vowed he'd not be a bit curious about what the draw was for her with afternoon soaps. 

Nope, not a bit. He became fidgety. Fingers tapping the top of his desk. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, tried sitting back and putting his boots up on the desk, and losing himself in screaming guitars and howling voices raging against the system. 

It wasn't working. With a groan, he got up and drug himself up the stairs. Five minutes, he promised himself. After all, there had to be SOMETHING about them that drew her in to the exclusion of all else. He just knew he could light a stick of dynamite under her, and she'd pay it no more attention than a fly buzzing in her face. 

And the hell of it was, he actually COULD do that, and it wouldn't really hurt her. It was tempting, but he really liked his home/place of business intact. Once again as he stepped into the den, he saw she'd taken the position. Lying on her belly, feet up, boots, wait that was different. Not boots today. She was barefoot, and he did a double take toward her feet, she'd painted her toenails? Pink, hot pink, if he knew colors, which he did to some extent. Interesting. And no black leather either. Jeans, and a baggy, black, hooded, sweatshirt. And, not MY sweatshirt! He growled, she'd raided his closet again. Had his favorite sweatshirt on. That was crossing the lines. 

There were certain lines a person did not cross: Lines that were sacred and sanctified in a man's world. One was his favorite clothing. One did NOT borrow, steal, tear into rags, or whatever else, any or all of his favorite clothes; without express written permission, typed, double spaced, in triplicate, signed in front of three witnesses, and notarized. That included the black, hooded sweatshirt. 

The second was sacrosanct, and as sacred as the Holy Virgin's tears: His favorite furniture. She'd been griping about the ratty couch he had in his den. So? It was lumpy, and had a tendency to sink when one sat in the wrong place. Or shove a spring up one's ass if they sat on it wrong. What was wrong with that? He liked his couch. 

In fact he was fucking going to marry it! If a person valued their life, they left the couch alone, and he was happy. Didn't matter to him it was a nasty call-back to that 1970's beloved color, burnt orange. Well dirty, burnt orange, since if a person sat on it hard enough, which he tended to do regularly, it would send a cloud of dust up that would encompass the entire room for about a minute. 

He didn't ask for much. Not really. After all, he'd let her live with him, when he could have very well asked her to pack up and leave, after he'd discovered her lack of respect for All The Things Holy to him. 

But nooooooooooooooooooooooo! He had to be a nice guy. Had to take pity on her. And dammit, he liked having her around anyway. 

Most of the time. 

Usually. 

Right then as he sat on the so-called "Most sorry excuse for upholstery ever invented." (Couch Philosophy, according to Trish), and watched the drama unfold between various and assorted too rich, and tony for anyone but the most flaky humanity on earth, he sighed and was caught up. 

Against his will. 

This was insidious, it was a plot to corrupt and turn intelligent minds into worthless mush. And the kiss the current couple shared was almost too hot for R-rated movies, much less daytime TV. And then? The same couple floundered between the sheets, which of course being daytime, the sheets covered strategic areas of what would pass for nudity, leaving just enough to the imagination to see for one's self what may be happening under said strategically placed sheets. If he were rating the scene, being a fan of dirtier sorts of entertainment, he'd have to, grudgingly of course, rate it at least a 6 on a scale of one to ten. Christ! Who knew day time TV had so much gratuitous gropage? 

But the scene was ruined for him when the stereotypical "Other" walked into the room, with the what had to be, a stereotypical expression of, shock, horror and BETRAYAL! 

He snorted, said softly, and very sarcastically, "Honey I can explain...We were just...Testing the springs in the new orthopedic mattress. Honest!" 

He got a piece of popcorn thrown at his face. He caught it with his mouth instead, and chewed thoughtfully, burnt popcorn wasn't too bad really. And of course he was starved anyway. There was left-over pizza in the fridge, but he was too interested in the unfolding scene of cheating spouse caught in the act, by unsuspecting spouse. 

Drama unfolded, a gun was brought out. Waved about threateningly, lame dialog poured from the TV, _"I've known about this all along. But I NEVER thought I'd actually catch you with HER in OUR bed!"_

Oh the horror, the shame. OH THE HUMANITY!!! He felt the appropriately appalled expression come over his face. It consisted of, dropped jaw, and horrified expression, and disgust. At least it felt like it. The horror, and disgust weren't all feigned. 

Apparently the woman was speaking to her husband...No, wait, she pointed the gun at HIM. 

"Yeah, you go girl, shoot the worthless bastard, I'll take ya!" He said, with a sort of smug grin, "Hell, I'll take ya anywhere you want. I'd be better than him." Damn she was hot. Even for a soap star, long dark hair, and big brown eyes, and a body that screamed "come fuck me now!" 

Then he swallowed somewhat distastefully, as the plot unfolded a bit more. 

_"I never thought you'd do this to me. To us, Sheila."_

"Sheila?" He swallowed again. 

_"After all we've been through together. How could you! How could you with...with...HIM!"_

"Oh...Christ..." He knew it was too good to be true. 

_"Danni, I've been meaning to tell you. It's over between us, it hasn't been the same for a long time."_

"What the fuck is this? I didn't think they allowed THIS on daytime," he grouched. 

"Shhhhhhh! Dammit! I knew this was coming." Trish turned, glared and stared back at the insuing drama. 

"You KNEW this was coming? Well fill me in," he grumbled. 

"After it's over. Now shut UP!" 

"Yes, ma'am!" He mock saluted her, and settled back down and rested his chin in his hand, pretended interest. 

_"But Sheila, we love each other."_ The brunette had walked toward the couple sitting up in the bed, and she pointed the gun a bit more threateningly toward the man, who was yet unnamed. 

"Probably something suitably stupid like Biff," Dante grumbled, noticed she really wasn't holding the gun right, rolled his eyes, "She's gonna shoot the ceiling before she shoots anything else." 

A pink toe-nailed foot connected with his shin, and he bit back the yelp. "Ok, ok, I'll be quiet." 

The hammer was pulled, gun was cocked, and was shakily pointed somewhere between the eyes of the yet, as unnamed male, and the wall above his head. 

"Aim lower honey, his head's too small a target. Then again any lower, she'd miss entirely." Dante grumbled, sneering. 

"Do I detect a little male envy?" Trish said without looking away. 

He shrugged, and sent a nasty look toward her, camara zeroed in on trigger finger shakily and slowwwwwly, ever so slowly squeezing trigger, and? A commercial. 

"Awwwww come on! I wanted to see if she blew his head off! Damn!" 

"Wow, you were actually getting into this. I'm amazed." Trish turned and looked at him with a smug little smirk. 

"No, I was wanting to see if she'd have the guts to blow Biff's head off or not." 

"Biff?" 

"Whatever his name is." 

"Randy. Actually and he's the hottest thing on two legs or soaps at the moment." Trish knew that jibe would hit home. The male ego after all was a fascinating thing to behold when it was pricked. Especially HIS male ego. 

"Don't tell me you'd want to be the other third in that little bi-sexual triad?" 

"Wouldn't bother me one bit to be the other half of a pair with him." She popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth, chomped happily and turned back toward the TV at his obvious eye-roll. 

"Yeah you just like him for his pecs." 

"Oh and you liked Sheila for her mind? Puhleaze! And no, I happen to like his ass," she retorted. He lowered his head, and thought, I can't win. 

"Well, actually I liked the brunette holding the gun, at least I liked her before I saw she liked women. I'd hate to have to worry about that." 

"You'd rather worry about a woman fooling around with another man, than another woman? That's a rather odd way of looking at it." 

"I could shoot a man. I wouldn't shoot a woman." 

"I see. Double standard. Cheating is cheating no matter whom, or what." Again she popped popcorn into her mouth and turned again, when the commercial break ended. 

"Besides two women having at it, not all that bad." He winked outrageously at her. 

This time she rolled her eyes, "Hopeless." 

His attention back on the TV, "What? They aren't going back to the Showdown at Notell Motel? What gives?" 

She looked at him levelly, "Ever hear of cliff hangers? You know, tune in next week..." 

"Shit! Now I'm gonna have to wait to see if she can even shoot." 

"Quiet, this part was just getting good. I want to find out if Mark was really abducted by aliens or if he just ran off to become a Tibetan Monk." 

"Aliens? You've got to be kidding me." 

"SHUT UP! Please, this is my time here." 

Once again he settled into his bored posture. Then sat up and crossed his legs, fidgeted again. Not quite as interesting as the whole, woman cheating on woman with a man thing. He yawned and the pizza beckoned him. He stood up, stretched and walked out, leaving her to her whatever the hell she wanted to call it. Probably something appropriately found in Glamour, or some other fashion girl type magazine, "Me time." Or, "How to Spend Quality Time With Yourself." Yeah there was another name for that too. But mental masturbation didn't have quite the same ring to it. He almost laughed at that. He did however congratulate himself on such a witty thought. 

He went downstairs, slapped a slab of pizza onto a paper plate, shut the microwave door, punched numbers randomly and had just heard the oven kick on when she came back down. And sniffed the air appreciatively. "Oh pizza!" 

"No, it's mine. You can't have any." He spotted her pout, and sighed, "So did what's his name get abducted, or what?" 

"Hmmmmmmmm..." She'd sidled up toward him, it made him nervous, "No, he went to Tibet." 

"Awwwwww no alien abductions, I'm disappointed. It's sad to know that TV has taken such a downward turn. I guess there would be no alien experiments on unsuspecting humans." 

"Nope. Not today anyway. Now about that pizza?" She batted her eyes at him. Saw his own narrow suspiciously. 

"There's more. Heat it yourself. You probably like that burnt too. And what did you mean not today?" 

"That was last week, on My Life As I Know It. Danny was abducted, and brought back. But..." She held up a hand for dramatic pause, "He wasn't the same. Turns out he was a clone of the real Danny. Shame, he was really cute until he turned into some evil mastermind of some plot to overtake the city's pillars of society and he hypnotized and messed around with Carol, the wife of a respected businessman dying of cancer. Now, Carol's given birth to an alien baby. It was born with...Ummmmm....not quite human features." 

"What?" He shook his head, "You lost me after the whole clone thing there." 

"You'll have to watch it sometime." 

"I don't think so. I mean, alien abductions, and clones, and what's his name being...Wait. Let me get this straight, what's his name was abducted, and cloned, then the clone was sent back to earth to pull some sort of trick on the unsuspecting...Jeez. I suppose they also did the torturous anal probes and so on, that aliens supposedly perform on the poor unsuspecting human specimens? That's fucking trite, Trish." 

She stood away from the counter and looked at him a bit wide-eyed, for a man who rarely spoke more than one sentence at a time, and usually three words constituted a sentence for him, that was an awful lot. "Danny." 

"Whatever." 

"That's more like it. Oh and your pizza?" She watched as he opened the microwave door, smoke rolled out, and he looked at her. 

"Damn!" He yanked the paper plate out and stared down at the smoldering remains of what had at one time been a respectible, double pepperoni, sausage, extra cheese, quarter of a large pizza, it had burned, "Here, it's burnt. Just the way you like it." 

She grinned..."I won that round." 

"That was all planned out? You made all that up?" 

"Oh it happened, but I knew if I distracted you long enough, I'd get your pizza." She took a bite, closed her eyes in ecstacy and watched as he walked out of the kitchen toward the office. 

"Point two for me. Rule two: A woman can always, always outsmart a man." 

"Trish?" 

"Yes?" 

"You touch my sweatshirt again? I WILL shoot you." 

"But you said you wouldn't shoot a woman." 

"In your case? I'll make an exception." 

And as she stood there mouth hanging open, he winked, clicked his tongue and pointed at her, "Gotcha babe. He shoots, he scores!! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 

He was dancing down the hallway. "And the crowd rises in a collective standing ovation!" He made the so-called crowd noises, "GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!!!!" 

She rolled her eyes, and heard him say very quietly from the end of the hall, "Rule one point OH one: Touch a man's sacred things, and die." 

* * *

And so ends the tale...Did what's her face, shoot what's his face? Was Danny's baby really an alien child? Will the world ever know? 

Do we even care? 

*Smacks announcer down again.* I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE! *Grabs the FOOT OF GODZILLA, and *WHACK!* There! You were warned! *Evil Laugh* Mwahahahahahahaha...ha...ha...ha..he..eh...Gulp. 

*Stomp* *Click* *Stomp* *Click* *Stomp* BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!! Snort. *FOOT OF GODZILLA is grabbed from author's hands by none other than Godzilla himself on crutches* 

Oh hi! Thanks for letting me use...."BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!" Lazer attack... *Squeak* *Squeak* *Squeak* *Squish* *Godzilla snorts out sulferous smoke* *Stomp* *Stomp* *Stomp* *Stomp* *Stomp* 

*Author climbs out from behind smoldering desk, blows smoldering hair out of eyes* 

And, *swaying* that's the end... *Passes out* *Thud* 

Owwwww.... 


End file.
